To her annoyance, she felt the colour creeping over her cheeks. No doubt he would account for that in his own way, and to disconcert him she added casually, “It’s not long really.” “It seems long,” he said. No one but Charles Batty would have said that in the presence of his mother; it was ridiculous, and she looked at him with revengeful criticism. He was plain; he was getting bald; his trousers bagged; his socks were wrinkled like concertinas; his comparative self-assurance was quite unjustified. He had looked at her consistently since he entered the room, and Henrietta was angrily aware that Mrs. Batty was trying to make herself insignificant in her corner of the sofa. Henrietta could hear the careful control of her breathing. She was hoping to make the young people forget she was there. Henrietta frowned warningly at Charles. “What’s the matter?” he asked at once. “Nothing.” She might have known it was useless to make signs. “But you frowned.” “Well, don’t you ever get a twinge?” she prevaricated. “Toothache, dear?” Mrs. Batty clucked her distress. “I’ll get some laudanum. You just rub it on the gum—” She rose. “I have some in my medicine cupboard. I’ll go and get it.” She went out, and across her broad back she seemed to carry the legend, “This is the consummation of tact.” Charles stood up and planted himself on the hearthrug and Henrietta wished Mrs. Batty had not gone. “I’m sorry you’ve got toothache,” he said. “I haven’t. I didn’t say I had. My teeth are perfect.” With a vicious opening of her mouth, she let him see them. “Then why did you frown?” “I had to do something to stop your glaring at me.” “Was I glaring? I didn’t know. I suppose I can’t help looking at you.” Henrietta appreciated this remark. “I don’t mind so much when we are alone.” From anybody else she would have expected a reminder that she had once allowed more than that, but she was safe with Charles and half annoyed by her safety. Her instinct was to run and dodge, but it was a poor game to play at hide-and-seek with this roughly executed statue of a young man. “Your mother must have noticed,” she explained. “Well, why not? She’ll have to know.” “Know what?” she cried indignantly. “That we’re engaged.” She brightened angrily. After all, he was thinking of that night and she felt a new, exasperated respect for him. “But I told you—I told you I didn’t mean anything when I let you—when we were alone in that car.” “I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said, and she felt a drop. He had no business not to think of it. “Then what do you mean?” she asked coldly. “I’ve been engaged to you,” he said, “for a long time. I told you. But I’ve been thinking that it really doesn’t work.” “Of course it doesn’t. Anybody would have known that except you, Charles Batty.” “Yes, but nobody tells me things. I have to find them out.” He sighed. “It takes time. But now I know.”